A/N: AH I'M SO SORRY. I completely messed up uploading this story, and accidentally posted Ch4 twice, completely skipping out on Ch3! I apologize so much for any and all confusion that might have caused!

CHAPTER THREE
Scorpius tries to think of it as a vacation.

Dear Scorpius,

I can't say I'm not disappointed. I realize it must be difficult to feel left out of a special opportunity, but we simply can't afford for you to join the Hogwarts Delegation. Our assets remain available, and our business interests intact, only because I have managed to shelter us from scrutiny. Our success in industry is contingent upon our near anonymity. Investors will flee if they even suspect that the Malfoy name may attract negative attention. Understand that this is your inheritance I am trying to protect.

More critically, and you know I resent discussing this, but my freedom remains only tenuous. You are well aware of how much we rely on Potter's support. If at any point he changes his mind, I will be whisked off for many cumulative life sentences in Azkaban, our assets will be seized, and you will be left an orphan. Worse still, a disgraced orphan. As you study alongside Potter's son and niece-in-law, you should see how precarious a weekend abroad may be, without the buffer of the additional student body. I have reason to believe that Mr Potter's support is reasonably stable as of yet, but I have no idea what resentments those children may have toward our name.

Please, Scorpius. It is of critical importance that you change your mind about this whole visit to France and stay behind at Hogwarts where you belong.

"Merlin," Rosie sighs, folding the parchment in two with disdain. "What a tosser."

Dawn reaches up to lighten the ceiling while the sleepy seventh years take an early breakfast. The Great Hall feels oddly empty and quiet without the other students around. Our trunks sit packed back in our dormitories. My hands tremble in my lap.

"I mean…" Roisie goes on. "Can't you just tell him? I feel like if he knew we're mates and all—if he knew the truth about you and Al? I mean… Wouldn't that clear a lot of this up?"

My father's owl ruffles her milky feathers and I try not to blame the messenger.

"He. Doesn't. Listen." My skin stretches taut over my face and it's a struggle to get the words out at all. "Can't you see? He doesn't even listen! He's acting like I want to go with everyone to Beauxbatons. I've owled him every day explaining everything I tried, but he won't listen to me!"

Al tries to lay a hand on my knee but I snap away, conscious of the eyes all around us.

"What a sodding tosser," she hisses again, tapping her fingernails against the table. I can tell Al is giving her a Shut Up sort of look, but she hasn't noticed. "Like... I feel kind of personally offended by what he wrote. Like I would blame you for something he did more than twenty years ago. And it's not like—"

"Rosie." Al's voice is even. "Shut up now."

My shaking hands rise over my face and my chest closes in on itself. Al stopped her, but I know what she was about to say. Fact: Draco Malfoy helped torture Hermione Granger in 1998. That's one life sentence in Azkaban. Rosie's tried to brush this off before, but the curse is 'Unforgivable' by definition.

And she wonders why the mere concept of her mum terrifies me.

There's a lump in my throat that won't get swallowed away. My shoulders start to quake. I know people must be looking now because Al hasn't laid a hand on my back.

"Scor, hey." His voice is quiet and close to my ear. "Maybe you should take some potion."

I try to nod that he's right, mopping at my wet cheeks in vain. The sedative is down in my trunk because, like an idiot, I didn't bring any up with me. Stupid. I should have known I'd need a sedative today.

My foot catches the bench as Al tries to guide me. The scratch of wood against flagstone rings loud in the near silent Hall and with so few people around, I know that everyone must be staring. I try to keep my breathing steady while Al leads me away. I can break down once I don't have an audience.

"Taking him to the Basement," Al murmurs. I look up to see Professor Madley biting her lip.

Technically, members of another House aren't allowed in the Hufflepuff Basement. And technically, we're not supposed to be returning to dorms right now at all for attendance-checking reasons. But Madley prescribed me the anti-anxiety potion in the first place and can see the way my chest is starting to heave with hyperventilation.

It's one approving nod from my Head of House and then we're off. A lopsided duo—one useful, kind, and capable of locomotion; the other stumbling and half-blinded by panic. Al rattles off the pass-rhythm-of-the-week from memory and lowers me into the tunnel with a practiced hand.

The other Hufflepuffs should all still be asleep, but we're known to be early risers. We pass up the inviting sofas and Albus half-carries me to my empty dormitory. The other seventh years will be up in the Great Hall for at least another half hour longer; a small mercy. My bedroom is such a familiar comfort, with its many potted plants sat on tables or hanging from the low ceiling. Lush vines wind across the rounded walls. I've yet to really accept that we'll be leaving soon.

"Top drawer of your trunk?" Al asks, setting me down on the patchwork bedspread.

"Yeah," I mumble but he's already rummaging, taking care not to disrupt the order within.

"Here." He raises the phial to my lips and I feel calmer already. Just knowing that I have the potion takes the edge off. It also helps that I'm back in my room, and that Al is with me.

"It's funny," he says, sitting down. His fingers twirl loose threads in the quilt. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it, so you can change the subject. Just…" His eyes are so green. "What your dad said. About you and I not having 'a buffer' or whatever."

I can feel the ghost of a laugh rising on my lips. Al holds my gaze.

"It just made me think about…" There's a fissure in his ever-calm exterior. A mirth, reaching out for mine, growing. His smile is almost coy, but in an infinitely genuine way. "What if he knew, you know? Talk about 'unbuffered contact.'"

The laughter boils up from my chest and I'm still half hysterical, half sedated. It shudders through me faster than anything. Within seconds I'm laughing just because I'm laughing. Full body, spasmodic, positive-feedback-loop kind of laughter. My forehead presses against the bedpost and my shoes are on the sheets and I couldn't care less. It's infectious, and soon Al is doubled over as well.

"You ok?" he giggles, running a hand through my hair.

"Enough," I say, taking a handful of his uniform front.

Only his lips on mine could calm that beast of anxious, uproarious laughter. Our mouths stay smiling as we kiss. For a shining moment, I feel happy that such improbable and unfortunate circumstances have led us here. Alone, at dawn, together, with a good excuse and half hour of assured privacy to boot.

It almost feels worth it, all of it worth it, just for this.

The rising October sun casts long shadows as we clamber off the carriages at Hogsmeade Station. Excitement electrifies the air as students cluster, clutching traveling cloaks tight and speaking in reverent whispers. I feel… Fine. I think. I've done what I can and it's happening, and there's nothing else I can do at this point. Sod what my father thinks. His last letter was a last ditch effort anyway, and now we're here.

Madley strolls by, checking names off a long scroll, and I feel one last vestige of guilt.

"Professor!" I catch up to her. "Don't you think, maybe, I really would be better off staying behind? Anxiety and all?" I do a daft sort of wiggle-dance when I say 'anxiety' and can't help but smile—all signs that I'm clearly doing fine just now.

"Well you seem to be doing fine just now," she says, then continues down the line of students.

She sounded innocent enough, but I can't help but turn over her words and tone in search of a double meaning. A wink. A nod. A nudge. Now I'm paranoid that she knows. Al and I spent longer in the basement than would be expressly necessary to administer the potion.

"It's OK," he says, but he's talking about the trip. "Maybe just try to think of it as a vacation?"

I can tell he regrets saying anything at all.

"Hardly." I crash down on my trunk and bury my face in my hands. "Beauxbatons'll be swimming with reporters when we get there. Do you know how hard it is to dodge reporters?"

"Yes." Al blinks at me. "Yes I do."

Right. Duh. I'm saved from my embarrassment by a vision of red curls bouncing up to greet us.

Rosie plops down to sit cross-legged on the grass beside us. "Still moping?"

"Yes," Al and I reply in unison.

With a groan she cuts a daisy stem between her fingernails. Then shreds the tiny flower to pieces. "Did you tell him to think of it as a vacation?"

"Yes," he and I chorus again.

"Well bollocks." She flops over and gazes up at me, letting her face squish against my shins. "Then I suggest you just get over it, mate. Nothing you can do now."

I smile despite myself. "Will you pinkie-promise to distract the press if it starts to get weird?"

"Pinkie promise," she agrees, voice muffled from how her face is squashed, and proffers her little finger.

We shake pinkies on it and I feel a silly sort of relief. She claims to have a whole scroll of wild stories to feed the press if ever Al and I start to get too much attention. And the thing about Rosie is, she's an absolute maniac who straight up doesn't give a fuck. (Her words, not mine.)

"You lot are good mates," I say, shaking my head at myself.

"The best." Al smiles.

"You're lucky to have us." Rosie gives my knee a pat.

"Attention, students." Headmistress McGonagall taps her wand to her throat and her magically amplified voice booms across the waiting seventh years. "As you all know, it is customary for the visiting delegation to arrive in a fashion both traditional for and representative of their region. As our mode of transport shall also act as our domicile while we are abroad, I hope each of you will show appropriate appreciation for the vehicle that the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts Board of Governors have arranged."

A fearsome screech erupts in the distance and I flinch. Other students stand to get a better look and casting curious glances at one another. A train is barreling down the tracks, largely obscured by thick plumes of steam, but I can tell it isn't the Hogwarts Express. It's faster, impossibly fast, and much too tall.

The steam clears as the violently orange engine jolts to a stop. Three towering decks rise above us and I can see chandeliers swaying treacherously inside each of the many windows. The crowd of seventh years begin to whisper, then fall silent as each set of doors bursts open with a bang. A short, portly man steps out from the front dressed in a matching tangerine uniform.

"All aboard the Continental Shuttle!"

Shouts of "in an orderly fashion!" ring out from the faculty but chaos has broken out. Trunks lay abandoned on the grass as students swarm the shuttle to claim bedrooms. Madley gives me an appreciative nod at my restraint as I claim my trunk before following Al and Rosie to the least busy of the cars.

Rosie is already swinging from a rail, face alight. "You have to see this."

Climbing aboard I stop, stunned, and Al crashes into me. Three massive chandeliers are still tinkling above from the train's jolting arrival, bouncing rainbow lights throughout the carriage. It's like a restaurant, with two rows of tables and upholstered chairs set against the windows. The wallpaper sports a fleur de lys pattern, all luxury and sophistication. While more classic than the Muggle trains I've spent six years passing at King's Cross, the decor is much more modern than the Hogwarts Express. Definitely more modern than Hogwarts Castle.

"It's like an old Muggle film," Rosie says, mouth agape as she turns on the spot. "One of those black and white ones."

With a grin, she tears up the spiral stairs to explore more. The giddiness is infectious, and I find myself smiling at Al as we follow her to the second level. Rolltop desks and bookshelves wait at one end while sofas and high-backed armchairs cluster around a fireplace at the other. It's like a common room of sorts.

"I could get used to this," Rose sighs down onto a chaise lounge. "It's prettier than Hogwarts, even. Bit less gloomy and gothic, you know?"

"Yeah." Al nods, smiling.

"Reckon dorms are upstairs?" I say, eyeing another twist of spiral steps leading up.

"Right you are," a voice calls from above and inky robes soon spill around the bend. Professor Longbottom, Head of Gryffindor House, fixes Rosie with a look as he descends. "But I must tell you that while we won't be segregating by House on the train, we do have separate carriages for witches and wizards. I'm sorry, Miss Weasley. You can visit your cousin and your friend in the dining and common spaces, but you won't be allowed upstairs. The girls' car is two down."

Rosie crosses her arms and pouts but I'm distracted by the somersault in my chest.

"You won't be segregating by House?" I ask, and Al's elbow jabs into my ribs.

"Indeed." Longbottom's eyes narrow, considering us. I'd forgotten how close the Herbology professor is with the Potters.

"Wicked… Mate!" I raise my hand for a High Five, trying to salvage the situation. Al only blinks at me.

"Oh right!" He catches on after too long a pause, and there's a crack as our palms meet. "We can hang out now. As mates. Obviously."

Longbottom's silence feels intentional as he leads Rosie away. Al and I trade grins before racing up the stairwell.

A narrow corridor stretches the length of the topmost deck, beset with numbered doors. I feel giddy as I turn a knob at random. Silk curtains gather beside the tall windows, streaming down in delicate folds, and two twin beds wait on either side of the room.

"I have an idea," Al says, lunging toward a bed. Its feet groan against the floor as he heaves, shoving them together.

"Use your wand," I quip, but he just gives me a look.

Pushed side by side, the two twins roughly amount to a king size. Al bounces onto the velvet covers but I feel rooted to the spot.

"We should probably get our trunks," I say, but I can't stop grinning like a fool.

"We probably should." He shrugs, but doesn't move to get up.

"How do they expect us to eat like this?" Rose shouts over the din, gripping the ends of our table while plates shudder across the silk tablecloth.

The sun is high in the sky as the Continental Shuttle tears across the countryside at breakneck speed. It's only just lunch, but we've already breezed past London.

"Well we won't be traveling every day," Al reminds her, catching a soup tureen as it threatens to skitter off the table. "The train will be parked the rest of the time so we'll only have to do this again when we come back."

"I thought we were coming back by portkey?" I say, trying to sound casual, but I know perfectly well that students returning early won't be taking the train home.

"Right." Al nods. "Lucky we'll only have to do this once."

"Yeah." Rosie sulks. "Lucky us."

Ambivalent worry roils in my gut. Today has been fun. Too fun. If things keep going as they are, Al and Rosie won't want to come back after the weekend. My train of thought leaves me feeling guilty and I hate myself for wishing a bad time on the two people I care about most.

Out the windows, I see stark chalk cliffs cleaving a coastline. Darkness swallows before I have a chance to get a better look. The roar softens to a rumble and the rocking of the carriage mellows. We're underneath the Channel now, and France is waiting on the other side.

After lunch, we retire up to the Common Carriage and socialize awkwardly. It's obvious that ours is the Reject Car. Hamish Warren mopes in a far corner while we avoid Bodie Summerbee's eager attempts to rope us into a game of exploding snap. Most of the other blokes have holed themselves up in their dorms.

The French countryside blurs beyond the windows while Al and I team up on Rosie for several consecutive games of wizard chess. Even with both of us strategizing together, we've yet to take her down. Hell, we've yet to make ten solid moves before getting trounced.

"Are we going west?" Rosie asks, squinting at the last rays of sun sinking behind the horizon. "I thought Beauxbatons was by Cannes."

"Nah." Al moves our knight forward. "Aunt Fleur told me they're way out by the Biscay coast."

Rosie takes our knight without even looking down, snapping her own bishop into place. "Check."

I groan.

"Checkmate," her bishop corrects.

Al groans. "We're twenty-three nil now."

"There it is!" Rosie cries, jumping up from her seat. "Look!"

Joining the others at the window I peer out into the jagged Pyrenees. Finally, I see it, glowing white in the twilight. The castle sits above an inlet from the bay, but 'castle' doesn't seem like quite the right word. It's no jumble of heavy stone towers and battlements like Hogwarts. Grand and symmetrical against a ragged countryside, Beauxbatons is a palace.

The Continental Shuttle cuts between sharp-peaked mountains as we speed closer to the host school. The rest of our fellow passengers trickle down from the dormitory carriage to get a better look. Crowding the windows we watch in hushed silence, swaying with the motion of the train.

"It's beautiful," Rosie sighs, breath fogging the glass.

I privately agree. Al doesn't say anything at all. Details sharpen as we draw near and I can make out sprawling gardens and glittering fountains. Everything appears delicate and ordered. I can't help but imagine that Hogwarts and its grounds would look positively wild in comparison.

Chatter swells as the Continental Shuttle slows. My anxiety mounts. It's all coming to pass. I see silhouettes swarm the tracks as we wheeze to a stop. Lights flicker below as cameras flash. Reporters. The press circus has already begun.

"Attention students." Professor Madley's magically broadcasted voice echoes in the carriage. "We will be disembarking in just a few minutes. Remember to keep ordered queues like we practiced back at home."

Gasps ripple through the group around me and I turn again to the window. The once-still water of the inlet churns, twisting into a whirlpool. A mast thrusts up. Even behind the cool glass of the window, I can hear the violent rushing as water cascades down the ship's sides.

"That'll be Durmstrang," someone says.

Well duh, I think. Who else would it be?

"Alright," Madley's voice crackles in the carriage once more. "Here we go."

I'm caught in the tide of students, a cacophony of footsteps battering an uneven rhythm against the stairs. Al's hand finds mine but I see the front doors opening and pull away. Bursts of light explode as soon as he's in view.

"Albus! Hey Albus!" the reporters call. "Can you confirm that you'll be putting your name forward?"

Madley races up through the dark from the faculty carriage, throwing out a protective arm so Al and Rosie can pass. Another blaze of white blinds me as I stumble onto wet grass.

"Malfoy," the photographer jeers. "Planning to win back your reputation by competing?"

Purple smoke from cameras thickens the air and the shouted questions become incoherent noise. My burnt retinas sting from every fresh click and flash. The press have given up on the heroes; now they're closing in on the villain.

"Hey!" I hear Rosie shout. "I've just eloped! With a vampire!"

Darkness falls as the journalists abandon me for their new prey. I blink, disorientated, and scramble up from the ground while they badger Rosie with questions and demand statements. Al just grins. Together we disappear into the anonymous crowd of black robes.